I walked into Malott tired from my tightly scheduled afternoon, not expecting much from the dining hall that had ever-so-carelessly withheld guacamole from me earlier in the year. As I headed toward the soup sta- tion, I glanced at the desserts I would be devouring after I polished off my dinner. The crowd in front led me to believe that, at the end of my tiring day, there would be salvation at last. And then I saw a sign that served as my beacon of hope: Chocolate Fondue.

I stepped out of the soup line and decided that it was time to treat my- self. That’s right, dessert before dinner. I waited in the long line, peeking my head around the others and crossing my fingers that I hadn’t come too late. As I inched toward the front, I let out a sigh of relief. There was enough chocolate fondue for me.

I conscientiously chose only a modest plateful of bread, wanting to leave enough for everyone. But as I brought my humbly-heaped plate of chocolate-drizzled treats toward myself, I made my fatal mistake. Too much enthusiasm led to a large chocolate splash on my clean, white, hand- wash-only sweater.

Looking down at the stain spreading on the edge of my sweater, I felt a similarly-dark pain spreading and seeping deeply into my heart. I aban- doned my chocolate fondue, grabbed a grilled cheese on my way out (nev- er enough cheese, come on!) and raced back to my dorm.

Using the sink in my room, I gave the sweater a hasty rinse. To no avail. The chocolate-y stain remained; a brown smudge on the immaculate white

of my beautiful sweater. I exited my room and turned to my only hope left: the larger sinks in the laundry room.

As I headed down the dark, cavernous stairs to the laundry room, I didn’t know what to expect. I had seen the larger sinks next to the washing machines, but they had never left much of an impression. I had practically forgotten that they existed. Now I knew why.

The sinks in the laundry room must be at least as old as the building— antique relics from the late 1920s. As I turned the squeaky knob over that crusty old sink, the faucet spewed a frigid, whitish water, which jetted off the sides and splashed into my face. Lovely.

Hurriedly wrenching the knob back to its tightest “off” position, I considered that rusting, somewhat terrifying old sink. As the occasional whitish drip splashed onto the single pure-white spot on the basin of the stained old sink, I knew that it would never serve the ends I needed it for. Those old sinks will never get anything clean. Far from removing a stain, those rusty sinks might even mar unstained clothing with fresh stains, leaving them more soiled than they were to begin with.

I heaved a large sigh and headed back up the stairs, defeated. I would have to walk the treacherous two blocks to Honnold Mudd, find the Con- nection desk and give up a whole $2.88 to get that precious sweater dry- cleaned.